DIE HARD
by Earth-94
Summary: Twelve terrorists. One auror. No wand with the odds stacked against him. That's just the way Ron Weasley likes it.


_**ONLY AURORS DIE HARD**_

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CHAPTER ONE

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The moon was shining bright that Christmas Eve when Ron Weasley left the UK on Saturday but found the sky a burning shade of amber when he stepped out of the photo-booth portkey in Grand Central Terminal in the United States. The British Auror suddenly found himself among a swarm of business suited people rushing from one end of the train station to another, hoping to find the fastest way home. All this bustling made it impossible for him to place himself but luckily for him he wasn't the only foreigner traveling via portkey and a couple of other wizards and witches being directed to the ticket windows, specific ones also doubled as check-ins for your traveling magic folk of course.

It was nice to see the holiday spirit wasn't limited to home—seeing a gigantic Christmas tree in the main concourse. Over the buzzing busy bees was a warm and festive air, filled with rays of hope and Dean Martin's ' _Let It Snow! Let It Snow! Let It Snow!_ '. Very festive indeed, in a rather American style. After his papers and his wand cleared him he departed and could hear a group outside carolling to people passing by.

Stepping into the Manhattan streets left him in awe. Frankly he'd not had much desire to travel beyond visiting his wife during her adjustment period retrieving her parents in Australia. New York seemed a whole lot bigger than he was used to and that wasn't necessarily a bad thing, but he was starting to feel a little overwhelmed—so many tall buildings here. If it wasn't for a young dark skinned boy barely eighteen holding up a sign with his name then he could have gotten lost in this forest of skyscrapers.

"You're…umm, Mr Granger?" he asked. Ron sighed and tapped the board bidding he read it again. "Ah, Mr Weasley, sorry I just assumed—"

"Don't worry about it, kid," he assured the kid who didn't seem any older than seventeen. "You here to pick me up?"

"Yep. Pick you up and drop you to the hotel and not to mention helping you with your…"

The older man shrugged his shoulders. Emphasising his empty hands. "Didn't really pack. I'm not really intending to stay here very long. By the way, are you my ride to the Ministry as well?"

"Of course, sir," said the well-dressed kid as he opened the door to a black limousine organised especially for Ron who ignored the kid to open his own door at the front.

"Sorry, mate. First time riding one of these. Not really used to it."

In a perfect world they would have driven in silence, but there really is no such thing. "So…they tell me your some kind of hero?"

Ron sniggered at that but remained somewhat stoic, looking out onto the city. "We all played our part during the war. It's all we could do, ain't it."

The kid just nodded. "So man…don't mean to pry but…how's Ms Granger in the sack?"

"Listen—ah, what'd they call you, lad?"

The kid didn't miss a beat, he just smiled and said "The name's White, boss. De'voreaux White but friends call me Row."

"Yeah, those friends ever tell you, you've got a big mouth, Row?"

The driver didn't seem to take offense to Ron's sharp words, in fact he just burst into more laughter. "Yeah, I hear that now and then, Mr Granger." Ron made to correct him again but just paused and decided more or less to roll with it. "So, spill."

"You know, I'm no expert but is there normally this much talking?"

"Sorry, Mr Granger," he said. "I used to drive cabs before this job, folks kinda expect a bit of chatter. Apart from hairdressers, cabbies are who you turn to when you gotta complain about shit to without wasten a fortune on therapy."

Ron shook his head but smiled in silent agreement. "You're a smart lad, Row."

They soon entered some tight traffic which just shortened Ron's threshold of annoyance. Still Row kept on talking, asking him questions that bordered on intrusive—or crossed that line completely.

"…I'm just saying, these No-Maj been causing a hell of a lot more damage and I'm the one on probation?" he groans, clicking his cheeks in disbelief. "Life sure aint fair, Mr Granger."

Ron gave a half-grin but kept his unfocused gaze outside, at the endless Christmas trees displayed in playgrounds or shopping centres.

"So what exactly are you?"

"I don't take your meaning, kid."

"I mean, Ms Granger's been here for months now and in that time I've been in her services, only now is her man coming in."

"There a question in there Row?" Ron gritted, his demeanour slipping away only slightly.

"Like no offense, Mr Granger, but your wife seems like that career sort, and I was just curious to know if you and her were the same, or was it trouble in paradise at home so you guys were like using the distance."

Ron couldn't believe the balls on this guy. This was the first time he'd ever been to America, it was safe to say his impressions were fresh and Row would just have to be the primary source of it for now. He guessed all Americans were this intrusive…probably incorrectly.

"So tell me, sir—what do you do?"

Again, all Ron could really do was smile at the young lad. "I'm a…I'm an… Auror, dark wizard catcher."

Row burst out laughing, banging the steering wheel like drums. "So you're like a cop?"

The older man nodded, "Yeah, mate. I'm like a cop. Head a division specifically designed to counter Death Eaters and other Voldemort supporter activities against muggles."

"Muggles?"

Ron had to think a while before it clicked and he had to internally chuckle to himself. There was Hermione's voice again, a small squeak in his head, full of tiny specs of information. "Ah, activities against No-Majs."

Row seemed to accept this. "That actually explains a lot."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Row seemed to pause and stammer. He looked nervously at the man he was driving around and chuckled. "Sorry, man. I can't tell you that."

"Now he wants to acknowledge boundaries," Ron muttered under his breath.

"So why didn't you just come with Ms Granger? Let me guess, both of you are married to your jobs. Unable to make a compromise prioritising each other's careers and you figured by the end she'd come walking back to you." _Aaaand there he is._

"Like I said, you're quick, Row, but quick doesn't mean you're right," he rebuked. "Hermione's married to her job. Tough work comes easily to her. As for me—I have a different problem. Been an auror for five years, in the fight since I was eleven years old, Row. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't fucking tired. Plus having a dark wizard fuck around with your head don't do you many favours." And with that he became silent, and for a while so did Row, all through the city until the hotel and before he got out of the car he asked the talkative driver what time he'd be here to pick him up.

"I'm here like forever so I think its Mrs Granger's choice when you leave though the Gala's around nine?"

Ron let out a trained breath but nodded his affirmation and made his way to the hotel, remembering to thank Row as he left.

The Renaissance Hotel was a towering structure of glass, a gigantic ' _R_ ' on the façade. Inside was quite spectacular, dimly lit at places with the city lighting up the rest of the room. The concierge was a young woman too distracted in her phone than someone checking in. in the end he had to slightly cough to get her attention.

The cute little blonde weakly smiled at him and asked if he needed something.

"Yeah, my name is Ron, Ron Weasley and I have a room booked under a Mrs Hermione We—"

"—Granger," the woman finished. "Yes I have your keycard here, just as soon as I get some proof of identification."

Ron was more than happy to present his ID which would change to fit his muggle environment and the receptionist in turn handed him access to the suite, accompanied with a flirtatious smile, a wink and then upon closer inspection of his card, noticed another piece of paper with ten digits. Ron let go of a long withdrawn breath and as nicely as he could, smiling down at the swooning young lady he held up his left hand which held a golden band wrapped around his third finger.

Her face immediately dropped but soon enough she was able to just shrug it off with a nervous laugh to mask her embarrassment, garnering a small smile of sympathy from the object of her little crush. Ron accepted it graciously and even asked for directions to how he would get there.

An elevator ride and three floors later, he was starting to consider just apparating to the room but he did see a couple of secret signs that said that there were wards against apparition for the sake of security and privacy which he understood. It was a rather long journey filled with awkward small talk with businessmen, both wizard and not, and neither had anything interesting to say which filled Ron with such relief once the doors slid open and he exited.

Once he gained access to his suite, he was rather impressed. He certainly wasn't used to such shining rooms of pearl white walls and ceilings, nothing had a traditional look to it but sort of alien. A skyline view of the city encompassed the entire end wall of the suite's living room, bathing the room in natural light. Strange enough though was the lack of a festive theme here. Clearly Hermione's been too busy for her Christmas spirit which was a shame. He remembered she used to love the holidays. Either that or she's been sleeping with somebody else…though, he liked to think he knew his wife better than that.

A short breath escaped his overworked chest. First instincts told him to take his shirt off, get feel of this environment, a bit of light recon. He located the bedroom quick enough and left his clean white shirt laid out on the bed. As he did so his eyes fell on a small paper pamphlet on the bedside drawer about the party he was invited to. He saw his beautiful wife on the front cover looking all triumphant. A toast to a diplomatic end to the International Werewolf Crisis.

He guessed he should understand her job now. Must have been important though he sure as hell never heard of it. He took it to the bathroom, just to splash some water on his face. He was reading the paper but suddenly got lost in his thoughts.

Ron was working George's joke shop in Diagon Alley when he ultimately decided to take Hermione's offer and come all the way to America. He often worked there on weekends or when his shift at the Ministry ends on an early day. It took a while for George to get back on his feet. One used to always find his older brother seated upstairs by the window, silently basking in the sun as though its rays could somehow make everything okay. He'd lost his twin, his other half, and of Ron's faults, he would sooner die than see his family suffer.

He missed Fred same as everyone, and maybe he just needed to lend a hand in any way he could. Just so he knew he wasn't the useless one in his family.

There he was, just closing up shop, finding himself alone but for his brother coming downstairs. "Just finishing up, George," he said.

"Cripes, Ron, you still here?"

"Yep, like I said, just finishing up."

He hadn't noticed George staring, looking upon him with sad eyes and then asked if he should give that invitation another look. That he should ' _go to America, visit Hermione, have a few laughs_ '. He was finding everything in that sentence hard to come by these days.

As for his time as an auror—just two years as a public serviceman, a normal auror and then he was put in charge of a special covert unit in Major Crimes. In this new line of work, quite literally had been newly formed with him, hunting down Death Eater activities against the Muggle world. It was a tough job, and his scars were proof. They were marks he refused to have treated or cleared, if only as a reminder to himself that he actually did it, and the cost he paid.

Ron just stood there, in front of the mirror, staring himself up and down like he was a perp. What did he see? Some slack-jawed idiot whose way too young to be tired of his job. In a casual white shirt and dark grey trousers, his red hair a little tousled and baggy eyes he looked like he felt—shit.

He'd run into a life of troubled his first year in Hogwarts and never really got out. He wasn't much of a fan of Voldemort's voice in his head when they had the Horcrux in their possession as well. Harry may have gotten used to it, the danger, the action, and in a way Ron quite liked it as well, but he was tired. He guessed he wasn't like Harry Potter, who seemed born into heroism, or Hermione Granger, her unwavering resolution. Each of them knew what they wanted to be, it wasn't hard, but as he stared into his reflection, the Auror's badge clipped to his belt, doubt started to creep in.

Perhaps that was his problem?

He was tired. Tired of being in Harry's shadow. He was tired of constantly worrying whether he was a good fit for Hermione. He was tired of seeing the world in a visor of dangerous Death Eaters or not. Two years as Harry's partner, and then just as he was gunning for a captain's position, the position was given to Harry Potter while he was given command of a newly established task force called Major Crimes. He had to laugh at that. The whole reason it existed was to operate on the down-low. If Kingsley wanted him to vanish, he certainly did the trick.

Ron sighed when he heard the suite's door open and Hermione's voice calling for him. He took a quick glance at the Gala pamphlet _'Mrs Hermione J. Granger & Guest'_, he sighed. He's just too tired.

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 **Author's Note:**

 **This idea has been sitting in my head for what seems like years now, and why not. Die Hard is one of my most favourite action films of all time, and in my opinion the best Christmas movie ever. Can't go wrong with watching Die Hard on Christmas.**


End file.
